ANOTHER VOICE

The security of the realm is in danger: people like me are in charge of it

MATTHEW PARRIS

Fewer 20th-century quips have become more famous than Groucho Marx's remark that he would not wish to join the kind of club which would accept people like him. May I add that I should not wish to be pro- tected by any secret service which would offer employment as a spy to people like me? They did, you see.

The episode is brought to mind by reports that MI5 are finally bringing their recruit- ment programme out into the open. This year a glossy brochure is available to new university graduates: Graduate Opportunities in the Security Services. The document is decorated with a discreet coat of arms por- traying a flying lion whose bottom half is a snake with a fish's tail, ringed by portcullis- es. Regnum Defende', says the motto. This openness has to be good news, for it is vital that our intelligence services cast their net wide enough to recruit the best. And not a moment too soon. Previously they were frankly — scraping the barrel. I know.

Have you ever read those spy novels in which mysterious men in raincoats arrange rendezvous at Cambridge with undergradu- ates, to discuss the possibility of serving their country in an unusual way? Well, it really was like that.

I hope I do the present Bishop of Birm- ingham no injustice when I seem to recall (memory could be playing tricks, it some- times does) that in 1972, as my tutor at Clare College, Cambridge, it fell to him to enquire whether I might be interested in rendering such service. I had just told him that a career in the diplomatic service inter- ested me. Spying, it was suggested, might be a variation on that theme. To be fair to my tutor, I was not encouraged or advised to apply: the possibility was simply pointed out to me.

I expressed interest. Next came a tele- phone call from a man who gave me an address to visit in Cambridge, for a chat. This led to a journey to London where, at an elegant address to divulge which would break the Official Secrets Act, I rang a doorbell and was met by a young lady with a posh voice who held out my exact train fare, coins and all, on a silver tray. I met some more men. They warned me that spy- ing was not a matter of steamy sex romps with beautiful blonde women: news which cheered me more than my interviewers could know. I remarked that, despite this, I was still interested.

The Sunday Telegraph said last week:

The names of undergraduates who might Tit in' — who were predicted for firsts and who could slip unobtrusively into any social situa- tion — were passed to the agencies by a select band of Oxbridge dons, discreetly tal- ent-spotting among the young intellectuals of the day.

I have to report that I was not predicted for a first, I was hardly an intellectual and, whatever poor talents I may possess, slip- ping unobtrusively into any social situation was never one of them. I could not slip unobtrusively into so much as a T-shirt, let alone a social situation.

The civil service examinations followed: you had to go through these in the normal way, and I was anyway applying for a posi- tion in the regular diplomatic service. My plan was to see whether either side or both offered me a job, and only to choose if and when necessary. I was successful in these examinations. The next test was the Civil Service Selection Board. I did clear this hurdle, but received the distinct impression that, had I failed, that was not necessarily the end of the road so far as Intelligence was concerned. This may have been a mis- apprehension, but if I am right then it was easier in 1972, not harder, to get into Intel- ligence than into the above-board Foreign Office.

I had offered two character referees: my tutor and a friend, Elizabeth Bingley. Eliza- beth's name came up when I was asked to report to another secret address in central London for a final interview. This took place at an oak table before an array of dis- tinguished and mostly elderly gentlemen chaired by a retired military officer with such an unusual name that it could not pos- sibly have been an alias. With much embar- rassed clearing of the throat I was assured by this gentleman that everyone present was a man of the world. Some, he averred, had undoubtedly drunk too much on occa- sions, while others knew about drugs. They realised I too might have come into contact with drink or drugs. That was to be expect- ed these days. But (more clearing of throat) was I addicted to hard drugs, or an alco- holic? I said no, neither.

With more clearing of throats I was asked, most apologetically, whether Miss

Bingley was . er — a friend'. Quick as a flash my laser-sharp brain discerned their devilish purpose in asking me this. 'A good friend,' I replied, with manly, confiding glance. They looked encouraged. 'A very good friend,' I said, warming to my tactic. They looked pleased.

'A very good friend indeed,' I breathed sig- nificantly. Relieved faces beamed at me from around the table. Elizabeth was, indeed, a very good friend, but never more. There were no further questions on this subject. Shortly afterwards, I was offered the job.

I actually turned it down. On reflection it struck me that I was far too unreliable a chap to be a spy. I am not discreet, not self- effacing, not patient, not heterosexual and, besides, I am completely mad. I should have thought that was perfectly obvious. Mrs Thatcher certainly realised it, straight away.

I chose the regular diplomatic service.

And the more I thought about it, the more outraged I became that anyone should be trying to place responsibility for the security secrets of the nation into the hands of a fruitcake like me. A chilling thought, is it not? If inadequates such as I were turning down employment in Intelli- gence in 1972, who was accepting such jobs? These people will be in charge, by now. Can any of us sleep safely in our beds?

It has been remarked that the one person who must, beyond shadow of doubt, be an atheist is the Pope. This is because as Pope he will know that if there is a God, He will have contacted him; and as he knows He has not contacted him, he must know He does not exist. Likewise, life's confidence tricksters, all of us, live haunted by the knowledge that nobody is in charge. We know this because we know we are of limit- ed talents and not particularly clever; yet we know that — just because we sound confident — people keep offering us jobs to which we are quite unsuited. We con- clude that this must be how others got to the top. All over Britain, key positions are being occupied by total nincompoops.

The secret service has been trying to recruit — can you believe it! — the sort of bounder who would then write Spectator articles about his interviews. It is most unsettling.